Lattes and Tattoos
It appeared out of thin air, on her forearm, a tattoo of a latte cup, steam rising from the open lid, the heart design in the foam dominating her skin.
She had heard of things appearing on others, soulmate designs, they were called, doodles, sketches of art, permenantly etched on one’s skin.
She was 33 and she had never even gotten a lame butterfly in all her years, until that day in the bookstore, as she reached for a book of poetry, her skin exposed.
Her soulmate had drawn their coffee cup and as the sketch completed she saw a scribble of a name on the sleeve.
Was it her imagination or were her senses playing a trick on her? She could smell the vanilla and cinnamon, the rich grounds of coffee, coming from the far counter of the bookstore. She looked from her tattoo to the only man sitting at the barista’s counter and caught her breath.
She tucked the book under her arm and approached the broad-shouldered man, with the tawny brown hair, and pencil to paper.
“Excuse me,” she tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, his green eyes piercing her dark ones, “are you Sam by any chance?”
The man looked at his sketch and noticed her forearm, shook his head, sadly,
“Name’s Dean,” he pulled a stool out for her, “there’s something you need to know.”
She cautiously sat next to Dean, who asked if she wanted one of the fancy coffees to which she accepted. As the barista made hers, she inclined her head and asked,
“Who is Sam?”
“Sam was my little brother, law student, obnoxiously smart, but taken too soon.”
“Every town I drive through, I stop and order one of his favorite coffees, reminiscing of what we had.”
“And today, you drew the latte, but why?”
Dean sighed, a tear slid down his cheek, “it was just us two against the world and now, now I’m tired of being alone.”
“I’ve been here this whole time,” you took a sip and noticed Dean never drank the latte he ordered, just held it in his hands for warmth, for a connection, for memory.
“I never believed in soulmates and when I saw the drawing and the name, I felt whole.”
Dean gulped, “but now you know I’m your soulmate, not Sam, and I’m not the man you thought I’d be.”
You placed your hot mug on the marble countertop and folded one hand over Dean’s on his mug.
“You’re more than I could ever have imagined and I’m yours to tell more stories of Sam to as well,” you grinned.
“But I want to know more about you, the artist for one,” you scooted closer, “would you tell me another story?”
“Are you sure, Sweetheart, hell I didn’t even catch your name,” Dean chuckled and his eyes for a brief second sparkled.
You took his pencil and scribbled in cursive on the napkin, and your name appeared on his wrist.
“YN,” he said your name like a prayer, “I’d love to tell you another story.